Rebellion baf-2 Read online

  “YOU OFF?”

  “Almost. I’m heading out in a minute. You?”

  “More or less. I need to drop the suit off with the cleaner.” He waved a plastic suit-hanger at her. “So. I was wondering.”

  “You were?”

  “Alice, could you shut up for a sec, yeah? You’re not half making this hard.”

  “Sorry.” She did her best to look apologetic. “You were wondering.”

  “I was wondering...” He paused, as though he was expecting her to interrupt. She watched him expectantly; he took this as a sign and carried on. “I was wondering whether you might like to come out for a drink tonight? Later, you know?” Alice could feel his relief from the other side of the desk. At least it explained why he’d been so twitchy all day.

  “Are you asking me out?”

  “Do you want me to be?”

  “Maybe. Although if you were, I’d hope you would be a little more definite about it.”

  “Then, yes. Yes, I am.”

  She was about to answer when she remembered. Tonight. She clapped a hand to her forehead. “Shit. Toby – I’m really sorry...”

  His face fell. “No problem,”

  “No, really – I am. I have to be somewhere tonight. Honestly, I do. God, I’m such an idiot: I should have said. Could we maybe do it another night?”

  “Tomorrow?” He had started to perk up again.

  “Tomorrow. Definitely.” Alice nodded, praying that she could actually deliver on the promise.

  “Alright, then. Tomorrow. After work.” Toby was beaming now, shrugging his shoulders happily. It was funny the difference it made: he had seemed so unlike himself all day, and now everything was normal. She almost felt sorry for him...

  “Sure. Look – I’ve got to go; how about we sort it out tomorrow?” She was waiting now, waiting for him to go, because she hadn’t been making excuses. She had somewhere she needed to be this evening. And Toby, with all his normality, couldn’t ever hope to understand why.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The Prisoner

  FROM THE WINDOW, the Archangel Michael could see nothing but the sea. The air smelled of salt, of the open skies and of sunshine, and if he leaned out and looked down, he would see the tourists bustling about on the island below: humans with their maps and their cameras and their sunglasses. Small things in which he had no interest. Michael had more important things on his mind, which was precisely why he had come back to his fortress.

  He rubbed a hand across his face as he tried to tune out Gabriel’s whining. It wasn’t easy: to say that Gabriel had not taken his punishment well would be an understatement. After all, as he was fond of pointing out – frequently – for an Archangel to have his wings clipped, to be sentenced to exile as an Earthbound, was unheard of. Until now.

  Did Michael regret what he had done to Gabriel? Not for a moment.

  Did he wish he had cut out Gabriel’s tongue when he clipped his wings? Absolutely.

  The battle for hell had not gone as Michael had hoped, something he blamed largely on Gabriel and his little favourite, Gwyn. Gwyn, he had taken care of; Gabriel was proving to be more problematic. Against his better judgement, Michael had offered him the chance to earn his wings back; he had initially jumped at the chance, but as the days passed, Gabriel grew more and more restless. Recently, he’d moved on from simply grumbling about his punishment to accusing Michael of tricking him, of giving him an impossible task and condemning him to an eternity of hopeless servitude. That little outburst had earned him a week in a windowless cell several floors below ground, giving him a chance to consider the exact meaning of ‘eternity’ and ‘hopeless.’ Needless to say, he had returned refreshed and reinvigorated. And quiet. It hadn’t lasted...

  Michael turned away from the window and back to the room. It was large and stone-built, with narrow windows on three sides giving views over the coast below, and a heavy table pushed against one wall, piled high with papers. Several wooden chairs with curved backs were lined up in front of it; the only other furnishing was an ornate seat carved from stone, set on a dais to one side of the room.

  “And what is it you would have me do, Zak? Hmm?”

  “I want you to be clear about the risks. Reuniting Lucifer, body and soul...” The angel sitting on the lower step of the dais shook his head and held up his hands. “But why would you listen to me?”

  “Don’t push your luck.” Michael scowled, and Zadkiel eased himself to his feet and strode towards him. He had deep lines etched into his forehead and hooded eyes, but his face was round, and somehow soft. Zadkiel had been listening to Gabriel speak, rolling a coin across his knuckles thoughtfully, while Michael stared out of the window. Every now and again, he would roll his eyes and chime in, but mostly, he just listened – and because he listened, when he chose to speak, Michael tended to pay attention. Zadkiel was his unofficial lieutenant, the one soul he trusted, and the closest thing he had to a friend.

  It was Zadkiel who had taken Michael to task over hell: over Alice, over Gwyn and Gabriel, and – above all – burning hell itself. “What the fuck, man? What. The. Fuck?” he had shouted, jabbing his fingers into Michael’s shoulder with every word. And Michael had glared at him and spread his burning wings, and Zadkiel had looked him straight in the eye and simply said, “There was a line, back there, and you crossed it. I won’t let you do it again.” And with one more jab, he had walked away.

  If it had been anyone else, they would have had to face the full, inescapable weight of Michael’s wrath – but it was Zadkiel, and loyalty had its privileges. And he was loyal. It was Zadkiel who had hauled Lucifer’s body, still imprisoned in its cage of ice, out of the lowest levels of hell. He had followed Michael to war in hell without a word of complaint, and when Michael refused to leave his prisoner in anyone else’s hands, instead of going home, Zadkiel had followed him behind the thick stone walls he’d designed for precisely this purpose.

  Which is how Michael found himself in the uppermost room of his earthly stronghold – a fortified priory on an island, linked to the mainland by only the narrowest of causeways, and its lower levels besieged by tourists – along with his closest ally, his greatest enemy (or at least, his enemy’s body, in its cell of unthawing ice) and a recently-Earthbound Archangel having a tantrum.

  Michael could think of places he would rather be.

  ZADKIEL STEPPED PAST Michael and leaned out of the window, his hands wrapped around the edges of the frame. He looked straight down at the people below. It was a running joke among the angels: the constant coming and going of the crowds had led some of them to nickname the place “No Man’s Land,” although they were careful never to say it too loudly around Michael. He was proud of his island, and had interfered in its construction until he was happy with it. “If they’re going to name the place after me, I might as well have some say in it,” he had said. And they did, and he had... and the final result was as defensible as it was beautiful, and they had called it Mont Saint-Michel. As for the visitors below, as far as they were concerned, this was somewhere to take photos and buy postcards; where the guided tours ran every thirty minutes in seven different languages. There were fewer of them lately, the tourists, far fewer, and those who did come seemed distracted. Quiet. Subdued. Desperate. It wouldn’t be long before there were none at all, and the streets would stand empty.

  When the world was as it should be, they came like a tide, sweeping through the steep streets below the priory – streets cluttered with restaurants and souvenir shops selling statues supposedly of Michael (which were a source of never-ending amusement for Zak) – and just like the sea they retreated soon enough, never questioning why a couple of hours in a place like that should leave them feeling so different... never knowing what hid in plain sight above and among them. He walked among them, sometimes, looking like any other man, with his hands in his pockets. He listened to their memories as they drifted past. He watched lovers walking hand-in-hand through the winding alleyways or alon
g the walls, and if anyone should happen to see him, he would smile and nod, and turn away before they could see the sudden sadness in his eyes.

  Whether there were many or few, Zadkiel walked among them, and he listened. Above all, he listened... and lately, he did not like what he had heard.

  “Just how long are you willing to wait?” he asked.

  “As long as it takes,” said Michael.

  “We might not have that long.” Zadkiel pulled himself back inside, and sat on the windowsill, looking at Michael. “You may have his body, but his mind’s still loose. The Twelve are still loose...”

  “Not all of them.”

  “You’re telling me he hasn’t promoted? There’s always Twelve, Michael. Always will be.” He folded his arms across his chest. “And all the while they’re out there, their influence is growing. I can feel it.”

  “Nonsense. You’re starting to sound like Raphael...”

  “Did it ever occur to you he might be right?”

  “We’ve never been so close. Don’t you understand, Zak? The war would be over. Forever.”

  “And as I keep trying to tell you, look at what he’s doing without his body: what do you think Lucifer could do if we force him back into it?”

  “Without his mind, his body is of no use to me.”

  “And locked up, it’s of no use to him. He’s not stupid, Michael. How do you know he couldn’t go right back in there if he saw any value in it?”

  “No,” Michael rubbed his chin, scuffing his foot against one of the steps. “He’s cut himself free. He thinks he’ll be safe. Thinks he can hide.”

  “He’s not hiding. The things they’re doing... the hold they’ve got...” Zadkiel frowned, closing his eyes, and the lines on his face deepened. “The things these people remember, Michael. The things they’ve seen. The Fallen aren’t running. They’re taunting us. The war’s not over, it just escalated. I didn’t even know that was possible! They’re not content with the scraps any longer. They want it all. And we’ve made sure that they have absolutely nothing to lose.”

  “There’s always something for them to lose.”

  “You sure about that?” Zadkiel glanced back over his shoulder and out of the window. “Because from where I’m sitting, it looks like the only ones with something to lose are us. And them.” He jerked his head back at the window. “All I’m asking is that you consider how much you’re prepared to sacrifice for the sake of being right.”

  Fire flared around the window, pouring out of the stonework and along the floor, as Michael finally lost his temper. But Zadkiel was already gone – slipping out through the open window and opening his wings.

  “ARE YOU QUITE finished?” Gabriel was still clutching a bundle of papers to his chest. Michael glared at him as the fire receded. He would deal with Zadkiel later.

  “Fine,” he snapped, waving Gabriel across the room. The other angel dropped the papers on the table, on top of the ones already there.

  “I might have found something. In the archives...”

  Since their arrival – complete with Lucifer’s body and the majority of Michael’s choir – Gabriel had spent his time working in the archives. Not the priory’s archives, which were popular with scholars for their collection of early-medieval manuscripts (“pretty,” Gabriel scoffed, “but pointless”) but the other archives – the ones holding Michael’s library, the history of the angels. This was to be Gabriel’s punishment and his redemption: find the way to destroy Lucifer. “You wanted to be the one to end the war,” said Michael as he had unlocked the door to Gabriel’s cell. “Here’s your chance.”

  Gabriel smoothed the roll of parchment out on the table, and pointed to a single line of looping text. “There.”

  “Is that all?” Michael snorted, peering over this shoulder. “This is nothing.” The parchment began to blacken at the edges, curling up and in on itself. “Come and see me when you’ve uncovered something useful, Gabriel.” And with that, the Archangel swept out of the room, leaving Gabriel shaking with fury.

  On the street below, a young man stopped to take a photograph of his pretty new wife as she stood in one of the priory gardens. She smiled, and posed for the picture – then, as usual, demanded to see it so she could decide whether or not to delete it. And while she decided her appearance was satisfactory, she frowned at the camera screen – because although the day was bright and warm, and the sky was a bright cloudless blue, the tower at the back of the shot had a peculiar blue halo... almost as though it had been struck by lightning.

  SOME TIME LATER, a door on the lowest level of Mont Saint-Michel opened in the dark. Far below the rooms Michael kept for himself, or the main body of the priory, or the tourists, lay the oldest part of the stronghold: the chapel. Abandoned soon after the main priory church, with its soaring roof and bright-stained glass, was built (under Michael’s watchful eye, naturally), the chapel had been forgotten by all but the angels. Sea-water seeped through the masonry, and the only light came from candles scattered around the room. No-one ever lit them: should Michael walk in, they simply lit themselves and that was good enough for him. It didn’t ever occur to him that they might not do the same for everyone... or if it did, he didn’t really care. So when Gabriel crept into the chapel, it was dark – until he opened his arms. Electricity bounced across the walls and vaulted roof, arcing around him and filling the chamber with brilliant white light... which slowly collected itself around a single lightbulb left lying on a mildewed bench. The bulb glowed gently as Gabriel closed the door behind him.

  “He thinks he can treat me like a child. Like a child!” White sparks spat from his hair as he paced the gloomy chapel. “I’ve been nothing but loyal – nothing. Haven’t I done everything he ever asked? Haven’t I done my utmost? Have...” He tailed off as he remembered that he was not alone.

  In the corner, half-hidden from the light, stood a large block of ice. Sturdy-looking chains were wrapped around it, secured with a dozen padlocks the size of a man’s hand. They were more for show than anything else: the ice showed no sign of melting, but knowing the chains were there made Michael’s choir feel better. Because inside the ice, his eyes open and unseeing, his face set in a permanent sneer, was Lucifer.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Controlled Drowning

  THE DOOR WOULDN’T open, not even with a good kick. Not entirely surprised, Alice backed up a couple of steps and tried again, glad she had switched her work shoes for something a little more sensible. Still nothing. She sighed, and looked at the side of the building. There was a small window a little way down the alley, with a pile of rotten-looking crates underneath it, and shards of broken glass sticking out of the frame. It looked about the right size. She knocked the worst of the glass out of the frame and clambered through, dropping to the floor on the other side. A cloud of dust kicked up from beneath her feet as she landed, and somewhere a bird took off, startled by the intrusion, but other than that everything was still and quiet. It didn’t seem like anyone had heard...

  Except, of course, for the angels.

  Huddled around the walls, they straightened up as she climbed inside. Earthbounds and half-borns; all different ages, all different choirs, all coming together for one reason.

  To fight the Fallen.

  It was always the Earthbounds: never the Descendeds. Never the ones who could make it an easy fight. They were all so busy hunting the other Fallen, Lucifer’s generals – who were known as the Twelve to most, and as “a fucking nightmare” to Mallory – that these minor battles, these backyard skirmishes, always fell to the Earthbounds and whatever allies they could scrape together. Never mind that the small fights were the ones that did the most damage. Never mind that even the lowliest, weakest of the Fallen could do untold damage if they got the chance – and more importantly, would. Multiply it by a hundred, a thousand, a hundred thousand and the odds were not in the angels’ favour.

  Alice was not the only one who had realised what was happening. With nowhere to re
treat to, the Fallen had decided to go for broke and throw everything they had at the world. No retreat, no surrender... and no mercy. The bruises from her own battles had barely faded when the first Earthbound had found her, just as Mallory had said they would.

  “They’ll come to you, and they’ll want you to lead them. And they’ll be right, because you’ll lead them like no-one else could – because you get it. You know what’s at stake, and you know the price. But this kind of thing... once you’re in, you’re in. No backing out.”

  Alice had restrained herself from telling him that, actually, she’d been in since the day he’d turned up on her doorstep. Since before then, even: since the day she was born. She’d known that this would only set him off on one of his rambles on ‘choices,’ and she just didn’t have the energy.

  Of course, he’d been right, and sure enough, the notes had started turning up at the Halfway, all of them exactly the same. A date, a time, a place and a fight. Yes, Mallory had been right. Like it or not, she was now so far in that she didn’t think she’d ever be able to get out again.

  Which left her clutching a tatty bit of paper in a dirty warehouse with broken glass on the floor, and a bunch of dishevelled Earthbounds waiting for her... just as they had been the time before, and the time before that, and all the other times. Because they had come, and she had gone with them. She had gone because she was needed. Or because she needed to be needed. She hadn’t quite worked out which.

  An Earthbound with untidy reddish-brown hair and a scattering of freckles across his nose, Zadkiel’s sigil just visible at the edge of his sleeve, nodded at her as she brushed dust and glass from her sleeves; stepping closer, he tucked his wings tightly behind him. “They came in about four o’clock. Went straight up and we’ve not seen them since.”